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Travis is dead (allegedly), Star One is destroyed, the Federation is in turmoil and the crew of the Liberator are chasing rumours trying to locate Blake. Avon is beginning to reach the conclusion that Blake doesn't want to be found...not yet anyway.
And then Tarrant (the new boy on the block) picks up a strange, melodic sound........

Bitter Sweet

Tarrant replayed the sound to a bemused Avon.
“And you think that comes from that?”
“According to Zen, it’s the only object in the immediate area that it could come from.”
Up on the main screen was the image of a derelict space craft; perhaps a victim of the battle with the invasion fleet.
“It doesn’t look much,” Dayna proffered.
“A distress call?” Cally suggested.
“Well, if it is, it’s not your standard Federation Distress Signal,” Tarrant said, “In fact, it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.”
“You know what Blake would do?” Vila smiled.
Avon grimaced; he knew exactly what Blake would do. But he wasn’t Blake, was he? And Blake was out there somewhere, determined, so it seemed, not to be found.
“Are there any life readings?” Avon asked.
+ THERE ARE NO LIFE SIGNS+ Zen replied.
“We should leave it,” Avon muttered.
“You know, that’s not a military ship,” Vila remarked, “There could be anything on there; just for the taking….”

“Satisfied?” Avon asked.
The air was stale, but breathable, that much Zen was able to report.
But the ship was deserted; its Flight Deck destroyed; only its cargo holds were intact.
“Blake would have been proud of you,” Vila smiled, “Risking your life to make sure no-one was in trouble over here.”
“Yes, but Blake isn’t here to see this remarkable transformation, is he Avon?” Tarrant said.
“So we’ve wasted our time…” Dayna began, but Avon wasn’t listening. He was standing by the last cargo bay door.
“Well?” Vila asked.
“Well what?” Avon replied.
“Are you going to open this one? It only seems fair as you’ve opened all the others.”
Avon conceded that fact and Vila set to work.
“And hurry,” Dayna enjoined, “I don’t think this ship will remain intact for much longer…”
As if on cue, the ship began to creak. From somewhere deep inside its bowels came a strange hissing noise. Dayna was right, thought Avon, this ship was about to give up the ghost.
The door slid aside and Vila’s eyes widened in amazement.
“We’re rich.”
Avon smiled as he saw what was in front of him. Any thoughts of Blake disappeared. No doubt Cally would be unhappy about that, but Avon suddenly realised, at that moment, where his future lay.
No more chasing rumours of Blake;
No more trying to find a base.
This was his course; the course he had been derailed from when he first met Blake on the London.
It was a bitter sweet moment and Avon tried to wrestle with his conscience.
But it was no good.
“Rich?” asked Tarrant.
“Oh yes,” Avon replied, kneeling down and quickly opening one of the three containers.
This had been Travis’ ship; the one that he had used to get to Star One.
“Absolutely,” Vila agreed, opening another container.
“I don’t understand,” Dayna murmured.
“These are Travis’ Revels,” explained a wide eyed Vila.
“No, they are not.” Avon’s voice was strangely distant, “These are mine…”

Cold.....you don't know the meaning of cold.
Cold is when you have ice on the INSIDE of the window!!!

Last week, during the rewatch of Deathwatch, Brad wondered what could have happened between that episode and Terminal to change Avon's mood. I actually wrote this little effort before that evening, so it seems strange that maybe I was thinking those thoughts myself.
Anyway, here is my idea based on the word prompt, and again, a lovely piccie by Lurena.

Epiphany

Sleep did not come easily to him.
Not for a long time now.
Kerr Avon was denied that luxury.
And it hurt.
Walking away from Blake and his ideals, to live the life that he wanted; even that was denied him.
Blake’s last speech had put paid to that.
And now, here he was, on the Liberator.
And no plan.
How ironic.
He wasn’t a natural leader; that had been Blake’s territory.
But now he was in Blake’s shoes; and it frightened him.
Dayna seemed to regard him with awe, but Tarrant? That was a different matter. He seemed to think that he was in charge and perhaps that illusion should be allowed to continue, at least until Avon had decided his next move.
Whatever that would be.
Then he heard it.
Again.
That faint, familiar voice calling his name.
He tried to shut it out, but it persisted.
Louder this time; right outside his door.
He sat up.
He knew that he would have to face whatever was outside sometime.
This ‘being’, for want of a better word, had manifested itself before, but this time, it sounded more urgent.
With some trepidation, Avon hauled himself off his bunk and tried to reach the door, but the floor of his quarters was buckling beneath his feet.
It seemed like an age, but he reached the door only to find that he could not press the button; it seemed to have a will of its own…and the voice became louder; mocking him.
“Leave me alone!” he tried to cry out, but the words caught in his throat almost choking him.
“I said…” In a rising fury, Avon slammed his hand against the recalcitrant button…
… and came face to face with himself….

He recoiled in horror.
Staring back at him was a shadow; a ghost perhaps.
The figure seemed to shimmer and then vanished.
For a moment Avon stared into the dark void which had once contained…what?
A caricature of himself?
Or perhaps a vision of the man he once was?
Time had taken its toll.
Blake had taken his toll…
…and so had Anna.
He had carried the bitter belief that he had been responsible for her death for so long, only for that belief to be cruelly shattered.
He looked down; on the floor seemed to be those very same shards of disillusionment.
It was painful as the dawning realisation crept through his being.
There could be no going back; not now.
He had to face the fact that he had changed.
For the better?
There were those on board the Liberator who would heartily disagree with that statement.
He made his way to his bunk, the deck now thankfully still.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
He had hoped, somehow, to prove that he was the better man; better at leading than Blake could ever be, but that was before that cryptic message.
Ostensibly from Blake and promising so much.
He smiled. His decision made.
He would find Blake and get him out of the mess he was now in.
That was nothing unusual.
Then he would find the truth about this discovery; a discovery that would make them both very rich.
Greed had been his downfall once…
This time, it would be different.
He looked up to see his reflection in the mirror hanging above the dresser.
“After all,” he said with an inner confidence, “Wealth is the only reality; this time, I’ll win.”

Cold.....you don't know the meaning of cold.
Cold is when you have ice on the INSIDE of the window!!!

Words
Avalon inspired him; her voice, her smile, her lovely face. Terloc would follow her anywhere; he had followed her into this cold subterranean hell, far from the temperate climate of his native planet. He loved listening to her rallying speeches from the front row of her rebel group, or while posted on guard duty further down the passageways. Even when he was off duty, he would position himself so he could hear her words echoing through the cave. The sound of her voice kept him warm.

He was content at first to support her cause, to become a trusted member of her rebel group. But soon he realised that was not enough; he was in love with her. She let him down gently, rebuffing his clumsy advances with kindness. She told him how much she valued his friendship, but at this stage couldn't consider having a lover. The rejection stung, but he accepted her reasons, not realising then that he had a rival.

Murmurs
None of the others noticed the looks passing between Avalon and Bryn. But Terloc saw, and followed them as far as he dared until they were lost to view. Sound travels in the caves, and he heard their quiet lovemaking: the soft murmurs, the rustling of heavy clothes, the silences and sighs. Gripped by agonised jealousy, Terloc clenched his fists as the warmth inside him grew cold and turned his heart to stone.

Outside, the wind cut through his clothes, and sharp ice flakes flayed his skin as he contacted Federation HQ.

Screams
"I gave you Avalon!" Terloc shouted his bitter betrayal, and now she knew; they all knew. Around him, the caves and passages rang with deafening blaster shots, echoed with the cries of the injured and dying. The indifferent mutoids fired and fired, sparing no one, not even him.

Whispers
The only sounds now were the drip of water, and distant footsteps as Avalon was led into captivity. The last look she gave him had hurt more than the blaster shot slamming into his chest. Lying among his fallen former comrades, Terloc imagined he could hear their silent accusations. He thought of his distant home, and whispered aloud with his last breath, "It's so cold, it's so cold, it's so cold..."

***

Edited by Travisina on 31 January 2017 17:11:42

Twitter: @TravisinaB7
Tumblr: tumblrThere's no point being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes

I still have to catch up with this thread, but nonetheless I'll post this now before the shops close ...

Lost in Translation

It is not easy to be a rock. Especially not a sentient rock. And it gets really hard when your fellow sentient rocks have not evolved as far as yourself.

This self-awareness is a fascinating experience. To think, to feel, to be – ! But how can I ever utilise these wonderful capabilities? I cannot move, and there is no-one with whom I could exchange my thoughts or share my feelings. Just other sentient rocks, only half conscious, dull and thoughtless. I have some psi powers and can play with the wind and the sand. It helps me to while away the time, but at the end of the day, these games are utterly pointless.

And then suddenly these two strange organic creatures appeared in my cave. I could touch their minds and read their thoughts, but I was not able to send them my thoughts. From what I read in their brains, they had a concept called ‘speech’; communication by the transmission of vibrations travelling through the air.

I can do this. I can use my psychokinetic powers to create and manipulate waves in the air. Let there be speech! Greetings to my visitors!

The sounds that appear in the cave are very similar to those that I read in the memories of my visitors.

One of them – he identifies himself as ‘Vila’ – turns around to his comrade.

‘Avon, did you hear that? There is someone here, trying to talk to us.’

‘This is just the wind creating oscillations in cavities in the rock; an effect very similar to an organ pipe.’

‘But I am sure I can hear someone talk ... like a lot of people all speaking at the same time.’

‘There is no-one here except us and the sopron; and although the sopron is somehow sentient it has not the capability to develop speech!’

The being called Avon bends down and picks up one of my small, dull brethren. Oh, why do you take this primitive sample? Take me! We could talk to each other, we could share our thoughts, learn from each other ...

But it is too late. As suddenly as the two creatures had appeared in in my cave, they vanish.

I am alone again. For ... millenia? The concept of measuring time is new to me, and the idea of infinity frightens me. There was another concept in the thoughts of these creatures; something called ‘death’. The existence of these beings is limited, and this is something that frightens them.

I am made of stone. My existence is unlimited. I will be alone forever.

Sneaking in via the back door because the curfew is upon us... My last minute (almost literally) entry:
Whispers and Wounds.

Avon tossed his head from side to side, trying to evade the insidious sound. It was impossible; it came from the very core of his being, making his bones ache with its vibration, boring a hollow in his gut. He bit back the rising bile and groaned.

Insects. Hoards of them scrabbling around in his skull, the clicking of their chitinous claws building a cacophony in his head. It almost drowned out the whispers. Almost.

He shook his head again, trying to shake the voices loose, trying to think. It was impossible. The voices were inside of him, part of him, their constant clamour disrupting any train of thought. Unable to form a sentence, Avon made do with a single word.

‘Stop!’

Cally withdrew her palm from his temple. It was damp with his sweat. She allowed him to regain his composure as she washed her hands, listening until his breathing had steadied before turning to face him again.

Avon’s voice cracked as he spoke.

‘I don’t … I don’t know how you can bear it.’

Cally’s eyes were dark with sorrow. Her voice was a whisper, but this time the pain was hers.